Breon 23h
A sentimental mood draws down the night
To memory and reverie: a dream
Of you beneath the low theater light -
I see it now - the way your bright eyes gleam
Like sunrise dawning past the flashback haze
Of morning dew - the tension in your lips
Just after their betrayal - your searching gaze
Pursuing those three words you'd just let slip -
Could there be any wonder that I froze,
As stunned by your confession as the way
"I love you" welled within me, slowly rose
Until I couldn't bear the wait to say...
Well, there it is. Inelegant, sublime,
And no less true, viewed through the lens of time.
Distortion and distortion.
Greco 2d
Youth is only accepted when the cameras are ready.
Pose for a picture by reason of Getty.
Gone are the days of sticks and stones and spilled milk.
We live in a melting pot that has been dropped and spilt.
This is not an adults swim only.
We will all jump into the pool.
This is not a land of first come, first serve.
I speak cause I’ve got nerve.
Our age is not a reflection of our IQ.
Our age is the tape that covers our mouths.
Our age is not a representation of our wisdom.
We won’t be seen and not heard.
Because our voices are the anthem of a rebellion.
I wrote this because so many adults in my life have tried to keep me from expressing my feelings.
A Henslo Feb 28
Ik merk op: “De maan die minnelijke Don Juan!
Of wellicht (ik geef toe, erg straf)
Is het de luchtballon van Pape Jan
Of een dwaallicht waarnaar wij turen
Om arme zielen hun bos in te sturen.”
     Zij zegt: “U dwaalt wel erg af!”

En ik weer: “Iemand ontlokt aan het toetsenbord
Die gevoelige nocturne, muziek met het vizier
Op nacht en maneschijn, die vaak gebezigd wordt
Om de eigen leegheid vorm te geven.”
     Zegt zij: “Sloeg dat misschien op mij, zo-even?”
     “O nee, ik ben de leeghoofd hier.”

“Gij zijt, mevrouw, een ware grapjapon,
Van hyperbolen nooit gehoord,
Voor dolende gevoelens geen pardon!
Met uw hulp nuchter en rigoureus
Wordt malle lyriek in de kiem gesmoord––”
      En–– “Moet alles echt zo serieus?“
English Dutch transposition A. Henslo 2017
Original text by T.S. Eliot (1920):


I observe: “Our sentimental friend the moon!
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)    
It may be Prester John’s balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travelers to their distress.
  She then: “How you digress!”

And I then: “Some one frames upon the keys    
That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain  
The night and moonshine; music which we seize  
To body forth our own vacuity.”
  She then: “Does this refer to me?”    
  “Oh no, it is I who am inane.”    

“You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
The eternal enemy of the absolute,  
Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
With your aid indifferent and imperious
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—”    
  And—“Are we then so serious?”
Julian Revà Feb 24
I have never dared into the old readings
                            of not so ancient texts
Because I always have believed
that so ulterior culture is not for me

So I wonder to myself sometimes
if someone ever had understood Ulysses
with all those recherche wordiness
and cleverly usage of imagination

Because, as you know, I'm not so clever
neither the most versed man on Earth
yet I can write some things
in another unseemly language

Somehow, I find the old saxon
(as the old Borges would say)
                          quite peculiar

Maybe one day I reach the necessary level
to comprehend the wonders that my mother tongue
cannot provide me nor teach me

So only that way
I could really say
I can understand Ulysses
My mother tongue is spanish.

I'm a huge admirer of Jorge Luis Borges, and is well known that he was such a great english speaker (also he was really good at other languages).
I wasn't there most days
skipping that class at school
I didn't like assignments made
they struck me, mean, and cruel

Don't use so many commas dear
why didn't you use the colon?
gestapo English causing fear
my brain inflamed, and swollen

I survived the curriculum
barely passing, with a D
teacher proclaimed, incorrigible
and threw more words at me

Too this day I wander back
wondering what might have been
attentive in my English class
turning out, my pen both sharp
and keen
I've never been much into rigidity. It stifles the imagination IMO.
The Mother, gets Father
to crush them when
they are babies.

Father always wanted too
crush them anyways,
While Momma, she...

Tamed him, Father; see?
By giving them over
to be crushed
some day.


* ...always defer to some other camp,
put it in VEGAS terms...
focus on and then to say,
Revolve your mind
turn around.

Kaede Feb 4
I will let you live in
Every stanzas of my poems.
Until you lost your breath
In my real world.

People will read and,
Learn to love you.
They will ask who is this
I define in my every word.

You want to tell them
Who you are but you realized,
You were shut there,
Lonely, in that space.

Then you will start to hate me
For burying you to deep,
But dear, in every bruise and
Ache you caused to me,
You just don't know
You are already digging
And living in your own grave.
This is part A for The Sad Thing about being a Poem.
The Führer smashes his fist down, sending millions into the void.
An S.S. man in the Lager directs his gaze into the void.

British boys lie entrenched, gambling: mortar rains on German lines.
They charge at dawn with bets and hopes, but each pays into the void.

Sailors smell petrol and hurl themselves to the murky waters.
Fire explodes battleships, and grey Zeros rise into the void.

The Angel of Marzabotto buries the dead, wiping his brow.
An officer lodges a bullet there; the Angel prays to the void.

Green GIs go romping through the jungle after Victor Charlie.
They come upon rice fields, and set My Lai ablaze, into the void.

George III holds tight to colonies that raise muskets and new flags.
The Ministry of All Talents leads him, crazed, into the void.

Nippon men flood Nanjing and throw a maiden to the ground.
They thrust their bayonets to send her, dazed, into the void.

Fascist youth march the Bedouins across the Libyan sands.
Captors fence nomads in; the Duce looks, unfazed, into the void.

A young captain and his Bedouins shoot Turks without pretense.
Lawrence, disillusioned, fades out unpraised, into the void.
An English-language ghazal (غزَل in Urdu). The form has ancient pre-Islamic origins in Arabia.
So you are lost in dreams so deep whole night
And I long to hear phone's beep whole night

At dawn, I realised, my awakening
Though my destiny remained asleep whole night

I know the remedy, I know the toxin..
What to lose, and what to keep whole night

She might have waited for me to take her back
This is what made me to weep whole night

Sharafat, night is to sleep, not to write
Don't let enemies to creep whole night
Poet's observation and suffering of whole night.
Crystal Jenkin Nov 2012
The icy burn creeps across my skin
in a gentle but lurking touch.
My hair hangs neatly, cascading
down my shoulders – I sit
Reading words of sorrow.
Outside, birds vent their bittersweet
notes, bounce like a frog.
The soft murmurs of conversation
float behind me. They get louder
as teacher exits the domain.
I wrote this when I was in 11th grade - 2010
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